Grabbing my dead phone as well as the underwear, I sprint for the door, nearly turning an ankle as I go tipping down Kieran’s staircase, like some loser Cinderella whose job is about to turn into a pumpkin because he had some tequila and forgot to keep his dick in his pants.
I’m so dead.
Three minutes later, I’ve dressed and brushed my teeth. I don’t glimpse a clock until I crank the engine of my car, and the dashboard comes to life. And there it is—proof of my complete failure to behave like an adult. It’s 6:53 a.m.
I’ll be arriving at work an hour and a half late. When the coffee shop opens in seven minutes, there won’t be any bagels. Or pretzels. Or muffins. The coffee won’t even be ready.
I zoom down the hill and barely come to a stop in the gravel parking lot before flinging myself out of the car. When I reach the door, I’m face to face with Benito—one of Zara’s brothers.
“Driving a little fast, there,” he says mildly.
“Sorry,” I sputter, remembering that he’s a cop. I shove the key into the lock and wave him in after me. “I got bad news. I’m very, very late for work, and there aren’t any pastries.”
“Oh shit,” he says, which pretty much sums it up.
“Benito?” calls Zara from the kitchen. “There will be muffins in a half hour. It’s the best I can do.”
My stomach quivers with fear.
“Anything day-old?” Benito asks hopefully, walking over to the basket where we offer day-old pastries, individually wrapped, for half price.
“Just take whatever you want!” Zara yells. I hear the oven door slam. “Roderick, get the coffee on. Hurry.”
“I’ll do it,” Benito says. He slips behind the counter and turns on the grinder. “Go bake something. Your public needs you.”
I duck into the kitchen and grab an apron. “Zara, I’m so damn sorry. My phone died.”
“It happens,” she says tightly. “What can you bake the fastest?”
I close my eyes and fight off a wave of pure panic. I cannot lose this job. I’ve got to stop being the guy who screws up every break people give him with some stupid decision or another. “Biscuits,” I decide. “Soda-leavened biscuits. And then scones.”
“Okay, get to it,” she says. “I have to open up out front.”
For the next twenty minutes, I’m the Tasmanian Devil cartoon character—spinning around the kitchen like a maniac. Cubed butter, flour, salt, and soda all land in a bowl. The mixer paddles are a blur. I fold in some shredded cheese and chives, and plop the dough onto baking trays at top speed. They go into the oven the minute Zara’s muffins are out. I burn my fingers when I dump the muffins from the pan before they’re ready and line them up on a tray.
I rush the tray to the counter, where Zara avoids looking me in the eye. The customers are five deep because she’s working alone. Usually I work the morning coffee rush behind the counter to avoid exactly this situation. “You want me to help with…?”
“Make the scones, please,” she says, her voice cool. “And we’ll need rolls for the lunch crowd.”
I’m so screwed. But I head back into the kitchen and start a batch of scones anyway. The dishes are piling up in the sink, and a headache has moved in behind my eye sockets. I haven’t had any coffee or food, and after a few hours of frantic baking, my hands start to shake.
“Roddy?” Zara calls. “Can you come out here for a minute?”
“One second,” I croak and quickly wash the butter off my hands.
When I arrive out front, Zara unties her apron. “I just need a five minute break, okay? Can you make a double cappuccino for this gentleman? Then start on the next in line.”
“Sure. Of course.” I start the espresso drink as Zara disappears toward the women’s room. Or maybe she’s heading to the tiny office that’s also back there, perhaps to write me a half-week’s check and fire me.
The next order is complicated, of course. The line grows longer while I make four fussy takeout drinks for a woman who’s treating her coworkers back at the office. When Zara comes back, she can tell I’m in the weeds.
“Shall I help you work this line down?” I ask. “Or bake the rolls for lunch?”
“The rolls,” she says, then immediately shakes her head. “No, the line.” It’s hard to make up your mind when you’re in an impossible situation.
“Hey, are there any of those bagels left?” the next customer asks. “I promised my wife one of those new bagels you got.”
“Not today, sorry,” Zara says.
“They’ll be back, though,” I stammer, realizing how pointless it is to prove how indispensable you are if you then dispense with yourself for a crucial, two-hour period.
I work down the coffee rush for a little while until I find myself elbow to elbow with Zara at the espresso machine. “I’m so sorry about this morning. It won’t happen again.”
“It had better not,” she says tersely. “If you could have just called me to say you’d be late, I could have called someone else in to help. We look like idiots today.”
“I know. And I feel terrible about the lost revenue.” Because that’s what a guy who’s hanging by a thread should do—point out how bad it really is.
“Just…” Zara sighs. “Just don’t do it again, okay? I really need you to be reliable. Now go bake some bread so we don’t starve everyone to death at lunchtime. Can I help you?” she asks the next customer, essentially dismissing me.
I step out from behind the hulking espresso machine to maneuver past Zara. But then I hear the next customer in line gasp.
It’s my mother. “Roderick,” she whispers. “Never thought I’d see you here.”
“Now you know,” I say icily. “Better buy your coffee elsewhere.”
Zara’s jaw drops. I stalk into the kitchen and turn the water on at full force, spraying those dirty mixing bowls down as if they were on fire.
I’m well aware that snapping at customers is just digging my hole a little deeper. But Zara is already mad at me. What difference could it make?
This is how it works with me. One step forward, two steps back. I’m twenty-six years old now. At some point you run out of people to blame. It’s all on me. I never rein myself in when it really matters. And if I don’t overhaul my behavior, it’s always going to be this way.
Ten minutes later, I’ve cleaned almost every pan and bowl in the kitchen when Zara leans over me and shuts the water off. “I’m just about to bake the rolls,” I tell her.
“Screw the rolls,” she says. “Who was that lady? Your mother? You have her eyes.”
“So I’ve been told.” I grab a dish towel and furiously swipe at a mixing bowl. “We’re not very close.”
“Weren’t you staying with your parents?”
I shake my head. “Not, uh, really. Renting from Kieran is better for everyone.”
She frowns at me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve.
“It’s embarrassing, Zara,” I mutter. “My parents don’t approve of my so-called lifestyle.”